Robert and the REA Lady

Interlude: Robert and the REA Lady

You couldn’t see the cabin from the road. I rented it by the smoke rising from its chimney. Standing on the dirt road looking down at the rushing waters of Geneva Creek, I saw the blue-gray pine smoke curling up through the great trees and knew it was the place for me.
I didn’t need luxury. I needed the forest and the waters. I needed the mountains rising about me. I made the deal that day and didn’t see the cabin until I moved in two weeks later. It was back in the late 80s before the world had discovered Park County and $100/month bought me a home with some good walls, a so-so roof, a wood stove, water and electric service, and all the essence of Pike National Forest that surrounded it. It was perfect.

I’ll tell you about summertime up there—the way light played the forest, the good brisk cool of morning, the honest deep chill of night, the crackle of the evening fire as I read, the clarity of my glimpse of sky through the boughs and past the steep sides of the canyon, and the sound, the sound of the furious power of the rapidly falling creek as it shouted its throaty whisper.

I needed to know the power of the creek. I would start my days by making my way, barefooted and bare-assed down through the trees to a secluded sandy-bottomed pool that was, by the eddy and turn of the waters, out of the treacherous current. I would stand on the bank in the good sunlight, breathe a wordless invocation to the Gods who sang the songs of such waters, take a deep breath, and leap right in.

The waters of Geneva Creek were new, born in the glaciers and snow fields less than ten miles up the mountain from where they spilled freshly into my ceremonial bath. I mean that was some seriously cold water. I stuck a thermometer in it one warm day and it read 38°. Needless to say, my encounters with the sacred Powers of Geneva Creek were brief—just an aching, thrashing submersion, a shout of pain and joy, and then a mad dash back to the warmth of my cabin.

Did I mention my idyllic retreat had electricity? Electricity as in kilowatt-hours-measured-by-a-meter and billed-monthly electricity.
I’m kind of a hairy old thing. Two-hundred-plus pounds stout, gray-bearded, and, after my ceremonial dip, a notable mass of red-pink flesh to come raging out of the forest.

I had almost run right into the side of the yellow Rural Electrical Association meter-reader’s truck before I saw it there in the driveway. She saw me about the same time I saw her. I’ll never forget the look on her face—God knows what she’ll never forget.

I screamed. She screamed. I dived back into the woods. She made dust down the driveway. I never saw her again.

It’s just a little mountain story I thought you might like to hear—not the kind of thing that happens that often in the city.